


Farther

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, D/s, Dirty Talk, Discipline, Dom/sub, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sensory Deprivation, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:29:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You can push me farther than that, you know.”</p><p>John/Dave, Dave trying to get John to try some new things in the bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Farther

“You can push me farther than that, you know.”

To anyone else, it would seem like a total non-sequitur, completely out of left field. But not to John. That’s what you love about him – you don’t have to constantly be talking, for once in your life you don’t have to run your mouth to cover your nerves, you can drop a conversation and then pick it up again hours later like you’d never stopped talking about it in the first place.

Just to make sure he heard you, you nuzzle a little closer to him on the couch, the tip of your very cold nose landing in his ear as you keep murmuring stupid little things to him under the blammo wham sockem noises of the shitty action flick you’re watching. “I’m not a little damsel in distress – I wanna be in that distress, okay, I like it when you do that shit to me, so keep doing it, push me a little harder, I’ll tell you when I wanna stop—“

“Like right now?” There’s a dark edge under John’s voice, and you really, really like it there. Still, something in his tone sounds shaky.

“Like right now,” you tell him. Honestly, you’re two teenagers. You’d fuck all day if you didn’t have to eat or sleep or shit occasionally.

John’s hand creeps up your spine from the small of your back, heat seeping through the thin cotton of your long-sleeved shirt as he goes up and up and up and soothes away the prickle of electricity before he starts you buzzing again by getting his fist in your hair and grabbing just hard enough to remind you who’s in control here. Him. It’s always been him. It’s only been him. “Calm your throbbing boner for about five minutes, okay, this is almost over and I wanna catch the end.”

It’s not until he actually says the words throbbing boner that you realize how hard your dick actually is, and you can feel yourself pulse with need at the thought of actually having to wait for what you want. John isn’t helping, either. In fact, he’s deliberately making things worse – he knows he is, the sadistic motherfucker, and you wouldn’t have him any other way. Under your blanket on the couch, he presses closer to you, heat searing in the points of contact in your side touching his ribcage, and he drapes his leg over your knee as he nuzzles up against your neck – fuck, his nose is cold, it’s your payback, you suppose – and once you have your eyes closed from want and your mouth open with a low, quiet,  needy sound crawling up from the bottom of your lungs, you can feel his fingers pluck away your shades.

You’re about to protest when he grazes his teeth, those stupid rabbit-denture overbite-ridiculous buck teeth, against the sensitive skin of your neck, just over the beat of your pulse, and you can feel your heart beating faster and harder in an effort to get that much closer to him. “I’ll take whatever I want from you,” is all he has to say, and then you’re even more throbbing hard than before, even when his hand comes down to mercilessly crush your cock in his grip and pin it against your thigh through two layers of fabric. Oh, god, he can probably hear your moan over the explosions in the movie, and all you can think is when will it be over, when will it be over so we can start, when can we start, when will he start, just let him start…

The cheesy 80s music starts playing over the end credits, and John instantly reaches out to turn off the television, sweeping the blanket away from the two of you in the process. “Fuck, I needed that,” you complain – it’s fucking cold in here – but John’s body is so warm near yours and you steal his body heat, your body heat back from him. It doesn’t completely quash the tremor running up your spine, but that isn’t entirely from cold, now, is it?

“Of all the things you need, you do not need a blanket, Strider.” Ooh, the way he says your name like this makes you shiver in perverted little ways. “Down,” he says, making you heel as if you were his dog – and it’s true, you’re his bitch, you love being his bitch, and you effortlessly sink to the floor with the weight of his hand on your back guiding you down. “Crawl,” he tells you, closing his fingers around the back of your neck like a collar on a beast, and you know exactly where this is going.

It’s degrading and it’s humiliating so of course it’s turning you on. Your body’s already so keyed up with anticipation that you can barely unlock your muscles enough to pad up the stairs on hands and knees to get to John’s bedroom. “Fuck,” you whimper helplessly as your dick chafes against fabric – oh, god, why does he have to be so good at this?

“On the bed.” He tugs at the collar of your shirt. “Go!” You really don’t need to be told twice; you let him fling you in the general direction of his mattress with the force of his arm, those perfect arms, those godly arms so finely sculpted from years of wielding a godly  hammer, oh god you’re going to blow just from thinking about his arms aren’t you – you land on the mattress, not sure what way he wants you to face, and so you just kneel in the middle, hands and knees like a dog, shoulders already hunching in a cringe.

John joins you shortly, though, tumbling onto his bed with you and kissing you fiercely as he rolls you onto your back beneath him. He’s keeping your hands free for now, and so of course you’re going to take advantage of your freedom, snaking your tongue into his mouth and biting at his lips while your fingers push up the bottom of his shirt so they can rest in the grooves of his abs. He takes this opportunity to practically rip your shirt off in his impatience. “God, John,” you choke out, holding him close once you’re stripped so you can still feel warm.

He keeps drawing curse words out of you as his mouth ravages your neck, biting and sucking and kissing as he works on your belt, the button and fly of your jeans, before pulling everything down and off and you’re bare and he’s clothed and you hate that. You make a move to get him just as naked, but he takes a wrist in each hand and pins them to the bed. “Pop quiz,” he says, somewhat breathlessly. “Safe word?”

“Betty Crocker – no, don’t stop, I was just saying – ahh,” you sigh out when his mouth starts moving down your body. Dear god, he knows how to make every single part of you just light up.

“Stop me right now,” he says, his voice hoarse with need before he bites down on your collarbone and threads your fingers together, “stop me right now if you don’t want this, tell me you don’t want this and I’ll cut it out…”

You know exactly what he’s talking about. Sometimes it’s like the two of you become completely different people when you try things like this, and he wants you to make sure you’re consenting to everything, that you’re okay with the safety off and the gun fully loaded and pointing down at you. “Fuck no am I stopping you,” you say through a sardonic grin. You love it when he’s like this, possessive and sexual and oh so totally in control.

“Good answer,” he says, quiet and low, and then he’s taking your shirt and tying the sleeves around your face and you can’t see, you’re blindfolded, you can’t tell where he is but the heat of his body is totally off of you right now. The fabric knots over your nose, knots again, and even though your eyes are open you can’t see a damn thing, not even in the space between your nose and your cheeks. Oh, god. You’ve never really done this before. Fuck, he actually listened to you. You want to take this. You want to see how far he can push you.

“John,” you say, your voice full of wonder and lust. But then, when you get no response, you start to freak. Just a little. Just enough. Because you’re naked and blindfolded in the middle of his bed and John could be fuck knows where, just leaving you here for anyone in the hell to see. “John,” comes out a little more insistently.

“Relax, asshole, I’m right here,” he says. You turn your head, though you can’t see, and you know you’d be looking in the direction of his closet. From the little jingle in his hand, he’s grabbed a few belts. Leather? Cloth? What is he going to use them for? Whipping you? Choking you?

He comes back to pin you down on the bed, kissing you featherlight on the lips before he takes one of your hands in both of his and starts outlining your trembling fingers one by one. As he kisses your fingertips, you whimper, the sensation going straight to your cock. You’re already squirming, and the bastard just chuckles – he can see what this is doing to you and he’s not doing a thing to make it stop. Then he takes that hand, wraps the wrist in cloth – a D-ring belt, then – and ties it to a middle rung in his headboard. “Jesus, John, fuck,” you babble out when he follows up with the other one. From the rasp of denim on your bare legs, he’s still clothed, too. Asshole. Utter asshole.

“You should see yourself like this,” he says, his voice silky and yet threatening. “I can just watch you breathe – you moan with every single breath, do you know that? And you’re shivering and shaking already – you’re such a slut,” with that, you actually moan, the sound frighteningly desperate, “look at you, aching and dripping hard already and I’ve barely even touched you.”

“John,” you try to say, but it won’t quite come out. You have to lick your lips, swallow once, twice, and make sure your mouth isn’t completely dry before you try again. “John.”

“I’m right here,” he reassures you, but there’s something sadistic and downright evil in his tone. From the flow of air in the room, he’s doing that thing he likes to do where he sits cross-legged on nothing at all, his god-tier powers supporting him. You can feel the current, like his breath, ghost over your skin, and the bastard actually laughs, the sound genuine and clear, when your skin prickles at the sensation. “Tell me what you want.”

“I – what?” Because it’s such a non-sequitur. You don’t understand why he’s asking you what you want. Usually this is about what he wants, and how much you’re willing to give him. This isn’t usually about you in any way. You’re just happy to be here for any of it, frankly, and you’d let him use you however and as many times as he wants, because you get off on that, you get off on him making your body do things you didn’t think were possible.

John repeats himself, slower, like he’s talking to a child. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want…” You don’t actually know what you want. Your mind is entirely focused on how hard your cock is and how much you just want relief. Every gust past sensitive skin makes you twitch and throb. God, usually your mouth and your mind are full of words and it takes all your effort to keep them in, but now, when he wants them from you, you can’t deliver. It’s a little easier when you close your eyes, even though you can’t see a damn thing anyway.

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll leave you here.”

“Fine. I – I’ll do it. I want…” You swallow. Your mouth keeps going dry. You can feel the seconds drag out as you try and put off the inevitable, but then the words come anyway. “I know you can push me to do so much more.” It’s getting a little edgy of you to call his dominance into question when he has you so completely at his mercy, but he wants to know what you want, what you need from him, and damn it, you’re going to tell him. “This – this is good, the sensory deprivation, you have no fucking idea, I have no clue where you are right now or what you’re doing or thinking or feeling and I can’t move my hands to find you –“ you rattle them against the headboard for emphasis, and sure enough, they aren’t going anywhere – “god, I am just – you could do anything to me when I’m like this, you know that, right?”

You’re babbling. You’re nervous and you can’t stop talking. John knows, though. A fingertip ghosting down the side of your throat lets you know he’s still here, still listening. “Keep talking,” he orders you.

“I don’t know how to put it into words,” you say helplessly. “I just want – I want. I want everything. I want it all. Don’t – don’t be afraid to fucking hurt me or anything, jesus christ, John,” because that one fingertip has gone from your throat down the center of your body, past your breastbone and dipping into your navel before his finger brushes against the swollen, leaking head of your cock.

You arch up into his touch, but both of John’s hands land flat on your thighs and pin your hips to the bed. “I didn’t tell you to stop.”

A low, desperate moan works its way out of your throat. “That,” you say weakly, your voice shaking. “That’s good. You could do anything to me when I’m tied up like this – fuck me so hard I cry, force me to cum, force me to hold it,” and the more you’re saying, the more you realize you want it. “Choke me with your dick down my throat, jizz all over me, bite me and cut me and beat me and bruise me until there’s a souvenir of you on every fucking square inch of skin, so everyone sees, so everyone knows, so I’ll know, every single time I move and I’m sore and I hurt, who it is that got under my skin…”

Your voice is hard-edged with need and quaking with exposure, embarrassment. Your mouth is dry, your lips chapped and parched. When you try to wet them with your tongue, though, John swats at your thigh – not hard, but hard enough. “Don’t stop.”

“I wish I knew what this was doing to you.” At this point, you’d say anything – you just need him to touch you. The memory of the wind holding him aloft is still giving you goosebumps, but you’re unbelievably hard, and talking yourself into it isn’t helping. “Bet you have a boner. Bet you’re stroking it right now, just trying to figure out where you’re gonna blow that first load. In my mouth, maybe. Make me shut up, make me swallow it. Or on my face while you make me hold my tongue out and call me a filthy cumdumpster.” Just thinking about that word out of John’s mouth makes your dick throb even harder. “On my abs, maybe, and then make me jizz right on top of it so I end up being bukkake’d by myself. Or – oh shit – you’ll just…” You can’t say it, can you. Chickenshit, Strider. “Spread me and fucking…” You’re panting just thinking about it. Maybe you are that dirty slut. “Pound me until you cum inside me, holy shit, don’t make me do this…”

From light-years away, or maybe from right next to your ear, John just lets out a little chuckle. More like a giggle, really. He fucking loves it when you get like this, so hot and desperate you can’t even form words. “You know what to say if you can’t do this,” he reminds you.

You have an out. But you also need this. You crave this sort of humiliation. It’s like being flayed, only emotionally, and it’s intense and almost painful and you need to let it out once in a while or you feel like you’re going to explode. “I don’t know what to say,” you wail, and you’re surprised how desperate you sound.

“Go back to the part where I force you to hold it,” John says, his voice low and smooth. If he’s jacking off to your filthy mouth, it’s impossible for you to tell from sound alone.

“Ohhhhhchrist.” So he listens. “I mean. You know what to do to make me blow. You know exactly what it takes. But I never, ever, and I mean that literally, I have never blown before you’ve given me the okay.” It never feels right. You always ask permission, because you need to know it’s all right with him. You’re just there to be a pretty little fuckhole, after all, so why should you get to cum? But always, he lets you. Sometimes he’ll tell you no, not yet, and then less than a minute later tell you ‘now, now, c’mon you son of a bitch’ when he’s seconds away from losing it himself.

“No, you haven’t,” John muses. His voice is impossible for you to get a read on. But then his hand combs through your hair, softly teasing along your scalp, and every single one of your nerve endings on the top of your head is on fire. “Such a good boy.”

You have to choke down a moan at that; the words still go straight to your cock, and you’re sure, if John gave you the okay right now, you could jizz without him even needing to touch you. You’re also sure that John knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing in working you up like this. He can see how tense every muscle in your body is, how hard you are, how you keep licking at your lips in a nervous habit to stave off the uncertainty of when and where he’ll touch you next. “John.” He doesn’t respond. “John, please.”

“John, please,” he simpers right back at you. “Please what?”

It barely comes out as a whisper. “Please let me.” God, you need to. It’s all you can think about.

He actually slaps you across the face, but the surge in your groin makes it feel like a blow to your cock instead. “Use your words,” he says, and his voice is uncharacteristically savage.

A little thrill goes up your spine, and the whimper this time isn’t entirely forced. “Please let me cum.”

“No.” You really didn’t expect any other answer, but it still stings. Can’t he see what this is doing to you? You’re practically trembling with the effort of holding it back. It’s an unstoppable force, and you’re an immovable object, and something’s gotta give. “Keep talking to me.”

There’s a tremor in your voice now. “Fuck, it’s just – the way you own me, treat me like I’m just yours to play with, like I’m just a thing to you, a thing to be fucked and used and owned, just a cockdoll, just a fucktoy, fuck, the way you play with me and boss me around and tell me what to do and when to do it, John, please, I need it, I need to…”

The babble trails off into a relieved yet desperate moan as one of John’s hands closes, with not near enough pressure, around your cock, starting to jerk you off at the most leisurely pace imaginable. You’re just at the point of thrashing when he actually sits on your legs, the pressure of his hips – his boner up against your knee – forcing you to stay down, to take this from him. “No,” John says again, and you hate him, you hate him so much for this and love that he’s doing this to you, for you, fuck, how did you get so lucky? “Hold it,” he tells you. “And don’t stop talking.”

“Fuck, would you just!” You’re going to dislocate your shoulders if you try much harder, and almost on cue, John’s hand comes to lay heavy and hot on your breastbone and shove your chest down into the mattress. “I need you, I need to cum, please, John…”

“Tell me how,” he commands you.

“You jerking me off,” comes immediately to mind. “Blowing me. Riding me.” Like that’s ever gonna happen. John’s expressed zero interest in catching; you prefer it when he pitches anyway. “Fucking my face. Fucking me – fucking me open with your fingers, you fucking tease, why are you so fucking good with your hands, and then your cock, fuck, thick and long and John, John, I’m gonna cum, please…”

“No,” he says, yet again, and you’re actually to the point of crying with frustration and arousal, you’re almost there, so close and yet not quite, and then John makes a ring with his thumb and forefinger and closes it almost too tightly around the base of your shaft and you’re throbbing and so ready and dripping precum onto your own stomach you can feel it pooling in cold puddles of dickdrool and you’re so close so close so close why won’t he let you fuck you hate (love) him. “Tell me how much you love my cock.”

Oh, oh god, you’ve never been more embarrassed or turned on in your entire life. “Fuck,” and it comes out as a broken sob at this point, he doesn’t want you to and you’re gonna blow anyway, you’re gonna let him down and then – then it’ll be over, all over, you need to do good for him, to make him stay, to let you cum. “That first time – I thought I was gonna die, I told you that, and then it just kept getting better – when I’m on my knees and you’re using me and forcing my face into the bed and stretching and filling and fucking the shit out of me John I can’t I’m gonna I’m sorry…”

It doesn’t matter that the grip he has on your dick is nothing short of a chokehold. It doesn’t matter that he’s told you not to. You arc up just that tiny bit and start to cum, the filthiest orgasm you’ve had in your pathetic life, shooting strings of jizz over John’s hand to land on your own stomach and make you even filthier. And you’re crying, soaking the blindfold with your needy-bitch tears, overcome with humiliation and shame and relief, that deadening feeling coursing through your body like you’re sobering up after a binge.

As soon as you’re done shooting off, John takes his hand away. No aftercare. With the way he snorts out a breath, you can hear his disgust with you. “I specifically told you not to,” he says quietly.

“I know.” Your voice is soft and small. “I’m sorry.”

“What am I going to do with you.” It’s the tone of the long-suffering boyfriend. You can’t tell if he’s putting on a role or if he’s genuinely disappointed with you. “Roll over. No, not like that, on your knees.”

Fuck. Fuck. You just came and your fucking awful teenage boy body is taking you straight to Bonerville again, so soon after that it’s almost painful. The anticipation is gonna kill you. You’ve never let him down like this before. “Please,” and you don’t know if you’re begging for a scourging punishment or for some kind of benevolent acceptance of your mistake.

“You just won’t stop begging for it, will you.” John runs a hot and heavy hand from your neck down your spine to end in the small of your back, arched just so in order to really present to John like he wants you to. “Where are your headphones?”

You don’t know where he’s going with this, but knowing tonight, it isn’t anywhere good. “Backpack,” you mumble, afraid to speak too loudly. “Front pocket.”

John ruffles your hair before he leaves your side. You hold on to the sensation, turning it over in your memory, until you can hear him approach again. “I got you these.”

You can hear the pride in his voice, and it’s like you can breathe again. The way he said it, it’s like you did something right. You know he loves it when you wear things he’s bought you – headphones, shades, sneakers, sweatshirts – boxers, even though they usually end up on the floor. It’s another way for him to stake his claim over you, by governing your appearance. “I wear them everywhere,” you tell him.

“Good.” He puts the Dr. Dre Beats over your head, fitting the pieces onto your ears. If he’s testing whether you can hear, the answer’s no. That’s what’s so great about them. Your big bro could be doing god knows what in the room next door and you’d never know.

The music starts – Deadmau5, Random Album Title, the one you use for relaxing on planes – and immediately it’s like you’re floating. In a trance. Literally. You are in the trance. You are the music. It’s you. You hardly know where you are, just what position you’re in. For all you know, John has you two feet above the bed and resting on nothing but air. You have no idea where he is or what’s going on around you. The world has narrowed itself down to the confines of your body and nothing more – except where John makes contact.

The palm of his hand comes down hard on the curve of your ass and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a noise. His hand comes down on your other cheek and you let out a shaky little whispered curse. He spanks you yet again and you can feel your throat move in a loud noise, but you can’t hear a damn thing. And it is so hot. God, if you hadn’t been half-hard before, you’re at full mast now, waiting for John’s hand to come down again in the space between heartbeats, between bass beats. From the vibrations in your throat, your little ‘fuck’s and ‘shit’s at the spanking are getting louder as time goes on, but you have no fucking idea. You’re floating out in the middle of nowhere, with no contact with reality but that which John gives you.

Fuck, and then he stops, and you want to cry from the sensory deprivation – don’t leave me out here alone, you want to say, and maybe you actually do, because then his hands are back on your body, separating your sore asscheeks and massaging the heat from his blows further into your skin. That’s gonna leave a bruise. You can’t wait for it to bloom.

Then his fingertip is up against your entrance, cold and slick with lube, and you involuntarily flinch at that. You wish you didn’t, because he immediately presses forward, too much, too soon, too too, and at first you want to tell him with the words you can’t form through the noise that it’s not gonna work. And then you give, with something that feels like the sound of a snap, and his fingertip slides in to the first knuckle, to the second, all the way to his hand, and he crooks forward and you feel like you’re about to die with the intensity of the sensation forcing itself through your body and down your frazzled noise and up to fry your brain. Goddamn, he knows what he’s doing.

Those excellent hands – those piano-playing hands, those wind-orchestrating hands, and he wants his fingers inside you, and you let him, you let him breach you, you let him tease you open with those articulate fingers and that methodical precision. God, you wish he would just fuck you already, because this languid pace is still leaving you feeling like you’re somewhere in no-man’s land. You need him to hold you down, his body on top of yours, keep you from dissolving or floating away. You need his cock in you, you need him buried in you, you need his chest pressed to your back and his mouth on your neck and his hand on your cock when he reaches around to give you at least a little bit of mercy.

But you can’t ask him for any of these things. You already gave up your right to ask when you disobeyed his order. So you’re succumbing to his every whim, letting him do anything to your body that pleases him, and for right now, that’s two fingers, slick and scissoring, stretching you and pressing up against your hotspot. You have to hold onto the headboard to keep from completely falling apart – it’s your one handle on reality right now, otherwise this would feel too good to be true.

John’s other hand comes up to caress you from your shoulder, down your arm, along your side, to rest on your hip, curling in like an insistent parenthesis. How did he know you needed that from him? He sneaks another finger in alongside the first two, and you’re stretched around him, pushing back onto his fingers eagerly – fucking slut, you are – and completely at his mercy as he pulls you apart only using his hands.

But as much as he pulls you apart, you know he can put you back together. All he has to do is – ahh. That. He slides his body along yours, sweat-slick and heated like a fever’s burning under your skins, and he withdraws his fingers from you, but only to guide his cock to your entrance. He deliberately teases you with the head of it, first pressing up like he’s about to tip into you and then pressing deliberately against your taint, spooning himself up against your back as his cock slides along yours from behind, and then he’s pulling back and pushing forward and he wants to breach and your body isn’t going to let him –

You let him in, and it’s like a complete shift in perspective, the way it gives you a new gravity to conform to.

For as much as you’re supposed to be the one in control of time, you have no idea how much time has passed since you’ve started fucking. You don’t care. You could trace it by the length of the songs pumping through your ears, but it’s long since stopped being about the noise. What it’s about is the slow slide of John’s thick shaft as he struggles to seat himself inside you. It never gets easier. You just wish you could hear his mutters of “so tight” and “just like that” and “fucking perfect,” like he says every time.

You feel his hips nestled against your ass, and then you feel his mouth on your shoulder, his body conforming to yours and curling around it insistently. It’s like he thinks he can possess you by phasing through your skin – doesn’t John know he has you already? He has all of you. He has your mind and your heart and your soul and your trust and your submission. Because he’s earned it. Because he deserves it.

John starts moving in you and you forget how to breathe. How to think. His hand comes up so he can rest his palm on your chest, and you know what he’s trying to say to you as he thrusts in you. Breathe. Just breathe. Breathe, Dave. Just breathe. He’s giving you a cadence for your lungs as you struggle for air, his hand over your heart so he can help you survive through this when you feel like you’re dying from pleasure. He rocks slowly into you, hitting up against your hotspot, and even though you’re blindfolded your vision turns white. Every thrust is deliberately calculated to send you straight there.

Fuck. He’s punishing you with pleasure. You’re about to have a panic attack. He knows it, because he’s trying to hold you together, his legs formed against yours, his pelvis nestling into yours with every thrust, his arms around your chest to keep you complete and whole. The entire world is you and every point where John is connected to you, and he feels so good in you, stretching and thrusting and nudging and nestling and moving, ever moving, constant as breathing, cadence like a clock.

And he just keeps fucking you harder. And harder. Until every slap of his hips into your ass brings the stinging back again. Until every jab of his head up against your hotspot makes you feel like he’s trying to kill you by fucking you into oblivion. Punishment by pleasure. You’re close, so close, but you know better than to lose it this time. God, and he moves, and he moves, and he moves, until both his hands are on your hips to fuck you more intensely, driving in with even more need and desperation.

You don’t realize how close he is without being able to hear him. Normally, by now, the Heir of Breath would be unable to breathe, choking on air while he was about to hit his climax. Now, all you have is the strange percussive rhythm of his erratic thrusts into you, and then you can feel – oh god, how he pulses, the feel of an extra spark of heat hitting somewhere deep inside you, and the extra sensation of filthiness as he pulls out – you know he can see his own cum as he slides out from you, because you can feel it dripping out and trickling down your balls and down your cock to leak onto the bed with your precum.

God, you’re so ready, you’ve been ready, and he’s used you, and he knows what this is doing to you, but you haven’t heard him, you haven’t acknowledged his okay, and so you refuse to come this time. You refuse to let go of your self-control this time. He reaches up to take off your headphones, and the room feels quiet. Too quiet. The only sound here is a pair of ragged breaths and the pulse of your heartbeat in your ears. “Please,” you realize you’re saying with all your air, “pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease…”

John starts jacking you off insistently, and you know he’s using his cum and your pre as lube, and oh my god that should not be as hot as it is and you shouldn’t be able to do this again, not so soon, but John says “now, do it now” and there it goes. It’s not as dramatic as the first one, but definitely just as intense. You weep your way through this one as well, your breath hitching in ragged sobs as John works you dry, drains you of everything you have.

It leaves your legs trembling; you have no idea how you’re still keeping yourself propped up. With a little pressure from John on the small of your back, you know it’s okay to collapse. You don’t even want to know what you just fell into. It’s cold and wet and ew it’s cum and lube and that is gross, so gross, and yet you’re too high and blissed out on your own endorphins and an orgasm-high to do anything about it but curl up in the fetal position as best you can.

John takes some mercy on you and starts to untie the belts still lashing you to the headboard. When your arms come down to your sides, he massages the feeling back into them. You’re so worn out right now that you can’t manage anything but a weak twitch of the corner of your mouth as he takes care of you, kissing your forehead and getting you out of the wet spot even as he lets you curl into him. “Still here?” he asks you.

“Mnhmnhnmnhn,” is your eloquent reply. You paw at him as best you can with hands numb and tingling, and he threads his fingers with yours, running his other hand through your hair. Eventually he can get up and get you water. You’re still too worn out for words.

“Was that…?” You can hear the question in his tone, but he clips off the sentence before he can actually say it out loud. He wants feedback, you realize. He wants to know if that was good for you, as good for you as it was for him.

It’s okay for him to let his dom façade fall now. You don’t need that from him right now. You need leader John, hero John, uber-boyfriend John, and that’s just what he’s giving you. “That,” you say. A word! Great job, Strider. “Was.” Okay, adjectives may be beyond you at this point, but you at least have to try. “Perfect.”

“Not too far?” You shake your head. “Not too fast?” You shake your head again. “There wasn’t anything you didn’t like?”

“Word,” you say. Full sentences are somewhat beyond you; a part of you is still floating out there in subspace, waiting for him to throw you a line and pull you back to reality.

He grasps your meaning, though: you have a safeword, and if you wanted it to stop, you would have said so. “You’re amazing,” he says, and you can hear the wonder in his voice.

“No,” you tell him. “You.”

He leans down to kiss you gently on the mouth, even though you can’t really return it right now. “Love you.”

“Hrmnghrmgnrhng.” Which, in sub-speak, definitely means ‘I love you too.’

**Author's Note:**

> Art by the ever-talented p33p @ tumblr.


End file.
